


Tonight, Again

by devotchka



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Begging, Established Relationship, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:48:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25575310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devotchka/pseuds/devotchka
Summary: This is worse than the kink stuff, he tells himself – worse than collars and degradation and outright violence, and that’s why he thinks Gladio likes this game so much. It isn’t about the pain Prompto can take so well. It’s about the patience that he can’t.
Relationships: Gladiolus Amicitia/Prompto Argentum
Comments: 1
Kudos: 51





	Tonight, Again

Prompto has a desk in one corner of his bedroom – a fairly massive one, about waist high, used mostly for uneventful and complicated school things – and this information is only relevant to him now because it’s the first time he’s found himself splayed out across it, completely naked, the floor covered in a mess of papers and folders and whatever else used to be where he currently is.

Normally, Gladio is very polite when it comes to sex. Tonight, on whatever round of power exchange and marathon sex this is, he simply isn’t.

He’s teasing him, and Prompto hates how much he loves it.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been lying across this desk, at Gladio’s mercy, pushed to the verge of breaking and then brought back down just to repeat it over and over, desperate for a conclusion. He needs it, feels like sobbing, his legs trembling where Gladio keeps them spread wide around his waist.

They’ve been fucking long enough that he knows Gladio can tell what he feels like when he’s close – that fluttering of his insides, the way he clenches and doesn’t stop, the way his voice betrays him every single time.

It’s just like now, as he hears himself louder and needier, as he feels that reflexive squeeze and every thrust of Gladio’s hips sends his cock into that one deep, sensitive spot that unwinds him without fail. He can’t control it. All he thinks, like overbearing clockwork, is that he’s close, so close, so fucking close to getting what he wants.

All it takes is a subtle shift of angles, a gentle manipulation of his body, and it’s gone. Back to square one.

The first time this happened Prompto tried to correct him, and it was obvious then that he’d been deliberate, that he wanted to play games with him. This time – who knows which time it really is since then – he just caves, feeling like he can hardly form a coherent sentence at all. “Please.” he begs. “Please, please, please, I can’t- “

He doesn’t even know where he’s going with that sentence. It’s like the only word he really does know anymore is please.

Gladio’s still fucking him, but it’s slower, it’s off center with what he needs, and it still feels unbearably good. If he could just stay on that one spot, hard and fast, this would be over in a matter of seconds.

Instead, Gladio says, “Patience. Be good for me.”

Prompto hardly registers it over the rapid fire of his pulse and the sounds coming out of his own mouth and the blind need of it all. This is worse than the kink stuff, he tells himself – worse than collars and degradation and outright violence, and that’s why he thinks Gladio likes this game so much. It isn’t about the pain Prompto can take so well. It’s about the patience that he can’t.

He’s vaguely aware of his hips aching. He’s vaguely aware of where his hands rest, not allowed to grab at Gladio, not allowed to touch himself. He focuses too much on what he is allowed to feel, and it’s overwhelming, those slow, deep thrusts into him, promising something he can’t yet have.

His body yields and relaxes. They go through the motions again. Prompto questions the limits of his obedience, questions his fortitude and his will and his pride. He wonders if Gladio thinks he’s capable of this, and it’s almost enough to hold himself together, and yet it isn’t.

He whimpers at the feel of Gladio prodding at that overstimulated part of him one more time. He lets it build. It’s all he can do. His hips rock into the motion of their own accord, gently, contributing to his own frustration, and he tells himself that this time has to be it. This has to be the limit. The buildup isn’t gradual anymore – it’s immediate, crashing over him in heavy waves, far too intense than anything this soft has the right to be.

The next time he’s denied what he wants, the pleading starts up again. Every misguided thrust threatens what’s left of his dignity, wearing him down until he’d say practically anything, until he doesn’t recognize his own urges, failing, like this, to hide them behind stubbornness and emotional walls.

“It’s so fucking hot, seeing you like this.” Gladio says, and Prompto only catches blurs of the words that follow it. They’re back on the upswing, Gladio slamming hard into that spot that sends shockwaves through him, that spot that’s suddenly making him cry out and arch his back and bury his face in his hands.

It happens so fast, Gladio’s arms hooking around his thighs and tugging him in closer, fucking him deeper and harder, and that need in him is so intense now that it aches. It pools in him like lava. He hears praise for his obedience, for his body; he hears, finally, permission to come.

It’s already so good like this, so much rougher, exactly how he likes it. And Gladio doesn’t stop this time, letting Prompto take and take, letting that pressure build and grow and overwhelm him completely. And suddenly, too quickly, it’s there – that unavoidable clamping down and that frantic, burning need, that moment where he’s hyperaware of every small thing: Gladio buried too deep, and how good it feels to be too full, too needy, too helpless.

He has the most intense, drawn out orgasm of his life. It feels like a head rush, like finding some unintended hedonistic peak, like nothing he can vocalize at all as his lungs burn and his throat aches and no sound significant enough comes out, soft and muffled.

And even after, as Gladio continues pounding into him, it still feels so good, so hypersensitive.

“I love you.” Prompto says, and then it’s spilling from him on autopilot, and he can’t control it; just like how he shakes, how he moans, how he needs it to stop yet can’t bear the thought. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

He hears, once, “I love you, too.”

He doesn’t feel completely there for the rest of it. He doesn’t feel completely there as Gladio bottoms out as deeply as he can and comes in him, or while he’s leaning over him, pulling him into deep, lingering kisses, cupping his face so softly.

He’s swimming through some odd mental haze as Gladio stops to look him in the eyes and ask, “How are you feeling?”

“Wobbly.” He replies. It’s as fitting a choice in words as any other.

“Good, though?”

He nods. He’s exhausted, coming down from this experimental, forced endorphin high, but it is good. Everything’s good.

Gladio leans down and kisses him again, and he melts into it, his arms lazily draping around his shoulders. He is thankful for this man who pushes his limits so well, who holds him down and makes him feels so powerless, so loved, so transcendent at the same time. He’s still a little astonished, this far into things, that it’s never anything like he once imagined it would be.

“How long was that?” He asks, curiously, as their last kiss breaks.

“I’m not sure.” Gladio says. He glances around, finding the clock that sits on one wall. “Definitely less than an hour.”

That’s…a little pathetic, probably. Prompto wouldn’t know, so used to just taking, so new to obedience. “I’m very tired.” He still complains. “Can we go to bed?”

Gladio cups the side of Prompto’s face again, his thumb absentmindedly brushing against his cheek, and the way he looks at him with such fondness makes Prompto wonder how he’s capable of denying him anything at all. “We can go to bed.” He agrees.


End file.
